As the days passed by, the team grew tired and wary. So far, there had been no immediate threat of danger to Beckett – nothing they had become aware of anyway. But, in saying that, they didn't expect any kind of warning. So far, these guys had been complete ghosts – they didn't expect them to start leaving a trail of breadcrumbs now.

Pulling all-nighters hadn't worked out for anyone… after the first two nights, everyone had become practically useless, too sleep deprived to sharpen a pencil, let alone solve a murder. And they needed to solve Benita's murder… if Beckett was going to die, she at least wanted to know the bastards who did it. So, to benefit everyone, Castle had practically shipped his family off to their place in the Hamptons, and temporarily moved Beckett into the feigned safety of the loft.

Alexis was on a short break from school… and Martha really didn't need an excuse to go. The leading ladies of Castle's life had been concerned, knowing something sinister must have been going on behind the scenes, and begged him to come with them – reminding him, once again, that he isn't actually a cop. He promised to keep in touch with them, every hour of the day if they felt necessary – but he had to stay.

While Beckett was in the safety of the 12th precinct or being chaperoned by one or both of the boys, Castle would attempt to catch up on as much sleep as possible. And then, once they clocked out for the evening, they would all congregate in the loft, sorting through the pieces of file, still searching for any possible clue. As the mental exhaustion would set in, the male detectives would go to their respective homes… and Beckett would retreat to the privacy of Castle's spare bedroom – an allusion of a decent night's sleep… but Castle knew better. Because he would still be awake, hours later, when she came back downstairs to start her day, trying desperately to stifle the yawns and hide the bags under her eyes with sloppily applied concealer. But he wouldn't say anything… he was tiptoeing on very thin ice, and he knew it. She had said she would forgive him… but he knew that was simply because she had accepted her fate – she didn't want to die without tying up all the loose ends.

And he hated that that's what he was to her right now – an end to be tied. He hated that just one week ago, he had her – holding her in his arms, kissing her, making love to her. And now, she was only here out of fear. It was necessity – to survive. She was hiding.

They hadn't spoken much over the week – nothing more than updates on the case. He would ask her how she is… try to pull any sort of emotion from her, only to be shut down immediately. He was hoping the boys had been feeding her at work, because she sure as hell wasn't eating here. He hadn't seen her consume anything more than coffee and Advil in at least three days.

He rose from his seat at the table, heading to the kitchen to pour his final coffee for the night – it was nearing sunrise, he just had to stay awake a few more hours before Beckett would be headed off for the day and he could give into the sleep his body so hopelessly needed. He had been so preoccupied with his beverage, that he hadn't even heard her descend the stairs. That doesn't bode well, he thought to himself, trying to push away the nagging what if's that entered his mind. She was standing over the table, eyeing off the progress he had made. He couldn't tell if she was happy with his progress or not – her face had always remained unreadable when it was just the two of them. If he had to warrant a guess, he would say that was done purposefully… it is easier to void yourself of all emotions, rather than trying to pick and choose which ones you allow… and he knew she didn't want to be feeling any of the anger or sadness that he had unintentionally inflicted.

When he returned to his makeshift workspace, he dared – just for a moment – to enter her space. He couldn't ignore her choice to wear one of his old t-shirts to bed… or perhaps he was reading too much into that. Standing just inches behind her, he placed his left hand on her waist. Just making my presence known, would be his excuse… if he needed one. But to his surprise, she didn't recoil away from him. Not even when he leaned around her to place his coffee in front of her, his chest brushing against her arm. That's my spot, but again, no excuse was needed.

"This one is a crime scene photo." She placed her fingertips carefully on the small section of pieced-together photo scraps. Castle hadn't recognised it before now… but of course she would. She would have had every inch of that photograph burned into her brain for years now. This was one of the several photographs from Johanna Beckett's case file.

He wasn't quite sure what to say – a rare occasion for him – when she began to wipe, what he assumed was tears, from her face. She had still not turned to look at him, but he would stay in her space for as long as she allowed him to. It was as much support as he could offer her right now, with their week-long unspoken agreement to not talk about it. He knew it was unhealthy… but it was so typically them. She leaned back into him, and he didn't waste any time wrapping his arms around her, placing his hands over her arms and shifting them across the front of her body. She seemed so small in his arms – but he pushed that mental note to the corner of his mind to address again later in the morning.

She pushed her forehead against his cheek, warming against his skin and letting out a tired sigh. He turned and pushed a soft kiss into her temple.

And she took her cue…

.